The Sisters Grimm

by Menna Van Praag

  “I don’t expect forgiveness, and I’m not asking for it,” he says, as if he’s already been carrying on a conversation without me. “I don’t even want it. What I did was unforgivable. Still, I hope you know . . .”

  I stop walking.

  “You know . . .” His green eyes cloud with tears. “That I did, that I do, that I will . . .”

  I look at him. I look at him for a long time without saying anything. Then I nod. After all, how can it be any other way? He is in my heart.

  “So, will you let me teach you?” He’s tentative. “Will you let me help you learn how to fight?”

  I nod again. And I try not to think that, if he doesn’t kill soon, he’ll die.

  3:33 a.m.—Esme

  Esme feels herself slipping, as if her bed has become a boat waiting to bear her away on a journey from which she will never return. She’s not scared. She only wishes her granddaughter were sitting beside her now, so she could hold Scarlet’s hand as she goes.

  Her granddaughter’s name sits on Esme’s lips, if only she could summon the energy to say it, to shout it. Still, Scarlet must be here, for the last thing Esme feels is her granddaughter’s hand. The last thing she sees is her daughter’s face. Ruby is speaking, but Esme can’t hear. The words take shape in Ruby’s eyes: words of gratitude, apology, prayer.

  Esme’s lips move, though no sound escapes. Still, it doesn’t matter. In this space between life and death, mother and daughter are connected again. Here, in the unknowable, all is known. All is understood . . . and forgiven.

  6:29 a.m.—Scarlet

  “Scarlet! Scarlet!”

  Scarlet wakes, sitting before she’s even opened her eyes. Esme’s calling. Scarlet is stumbling halfway down the hallway when she realizes—it wasn’t her grandmother, it was her. She was calling her own name.

  Scarlet falls silent, stopping outside the door. She doesn’t want to go into her grandmother’s room. Not tonight. She wants to sleep, wants to dream, wants to pretend her way into another world. The one with the rivers and trees, the unwavering moon and perpetually falling leaves.

  But something has shifted.

  There is a stiller stillness, a quieter quiet. There is absence, loss.

  Scarlet doesn’t need to step into her grandmother’s room to know she’s no longer there, doesn’t need to walk to her bedside to see she’s not breathing, doesn’t need to touch her cheek to know it will be cold.

  Still, Scarlet creeps forward, treading on the carpet as if Esme will feel every step. She stands beside her grandmother’s bed, watches her inert chest, brushes a fingertip along her cheek. Then places a kiss on her grandmother’s lips. She sits holding Esme’s hand, sinking into memories—dancing in the kitchen and setting fire to toast. At the edges of memories wait decisions, necessities, the question of what she must do next.

  No doubt doctors believe it’s impossible to die of a broken heart. But when they give Scarlet the official report, she’ll know better. Her grandmother, already skirting the edge of the next world, was pushed over the precipice by shock and grief. So Scarlet must face the impossible fact that she killed the two women who had raised her, loved her, and kept her safe.

  Scarlet looks out the bedroom window, to the lightening sky. Outside, the sunrise is like a dying fire and the remaining stars flicker like greying embers in the grate.

  11:15 a.m.—Goldie & Liyana

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Liyana says.

  I wait, since I know she’s not—I can feel anxiety coming off her in waves, crashing to the shore at my feet.

  “It’s just . . . There’s a lot of . . . Kumiko’s still not properly forgiven me, my aunt’s having a nervous breakdown, we’ve been kicked out of our house . . .”

  “Shit.” I wait, and when she says no more, I don’t ask. I know my sister well enough now not to push her. I wonder what she’d say if I told her about Leo.

  Liyana follows me along Trumpington Street towards King’s Parade. Passing Saint Catherine’s College and the wall of red leaves, I quicken my pace and Liyana hurries to keep up.

  “We’re nearly there.”

  Liyana grins at me. “I still can’t believe you cut off your hair because of my story.”

  “Shut up,” I say, stroking my bare neck.

  When I see the sign for the No. 33 Café, I slow. All at once I’m not sure. What will I say to the red-haired girl? That I dreamed of her and think she’s my sister? When Liyana did the same with me, I held her at knife-point. And this girl works in a café. She has access to plenty of sharp knives.

  “Here.” I slow to a stop.

  We both look up at the closed sign on the door.

  “Oh,” I say, not wanting to admit my relief. “It’s a shame, but we could . . .”

  “Don’t be such a defeatist,” Liyana says.

  “Hey, you’re not the one who—”

  “Look!” Liyana bends to pick something up from the pavement, then stands again, holding a black feather. She smiles. “It’s a sign.”

  “I know,” I say, surprised since my sister hasn’t shown any signs of stupidity so far. “It says ‘closed.’”

  “No.” Liyana nods at the feather. “Not that, this. This is a sign.”

  I look at her, not certain how to respond. “The feather?”

  “It’s . . . never mind.” Liyana drops the feather. It floats to the pavement. “Let’s knock. What can she say?”

  “A lot,” I say. “Let’s come back another day when she’s open.”

  “I can’t, I’ve not got another day off for two weeks.” Liyana peers through the glass door. “Look, there she is.”

  Our redheaded sister sits at a table with a man. He’s not handsome, not a man you’d notice if you didn’t know him. But he holds her hand with such tenderness, as if trying to contain her sorrow. For she looks like a fire has burned through her, destroying every emotion but grief.

  “Oh!” Liyana says, not noticing—but perhaps I see the girl’s sorrow only because I’m full of it too. “I’ve seen her before.”

  “You have?” I say. “Where? Asleep or awake?”

  “I’m not sure.” Liyana bites her lip. “I’m not having dreams like you. At least, I don’t think—but I’m remembering things . . .”

  We watch as our sister drops her head and the man reaches out to cup her cheek in his hand. The gesture is tender, tentative, and I feel my eyes fill.

  “Let’s go,” I say. “Let’s come back another day.”

  Liyana slips her arm around my waist and gives me a quick, tight squeeze. We turn together and walk away.

  1st November

  Revelation

  I start to shut the door before I’ve even fully opened it.

  “Wait, please,” Leo begs. He stops short of wedging his foot between the door and the frame, but his desperation hits me with such force that I catch the door before it slams shut.

  I shake my head. It’s one thing to see him in my dreams, quite another to see him now. It’s too real, too sharp, too soon. I’m not ready. I need more time.

  “We don’t have more time.”

  I’m no longer surprised that he hears my thoughts.

  “Please.” His voice claws through the gap. “It’s tonight. You’re going to Everwhere tonight. And I still need to teach you—”

  “You’ve taught me.”

  “A few things. There’s so much more. You don’t even remember how to control your element yet, let alone . . .”

  I feel his anxiety rise, thickening the air. I let the door open an inch and I’m gratified to see how devastated he still looks.

  He gives me a cautious smile. “Happy birthday.”

  “Hardly,” I say, finding that I still want to hurt him. Love and hate entwined.

  Leo nods. “I under— Look, you don’t have to come with me now. I can meet you there tonight, but if we go now we’ll have more time. I can show you . . .”

  I glance do
wn at my bare feet, stubbing the toes of my left foot into the doorjamb.

  “Please,” Leo begs. “Please.”

  It’s not the begging that does it. It’s realizing that I’ve never heard Leo sound so scared. I think of my brother in London, post-Macbeth, sleeping soundly (or having nightmares) with his friends. If Leo’s been telling the truth, I might never see him again. I’ve written him a letter. I hope he’ll never read it.

  I just wish he was here tonight so I could kiss him goodbye.

  Gateway

  “I don’t understand. Where are we going?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain,” Leo says. “And I know it’s asking a lot, after everything, but please, trust me.”

  I follow. Not because I trust him, but because I trust myself. My senses are sharpening daily, giving me confidence in the instructions of my instincts. Leo walks quickly along the moonlit pavements so I have to dash every few seconds to keep pace.

  The filigree pinnacles of King’s College rise up beside me as I scurry past. I glance at the carved turrets of Great Saint Mary’s Church, the stumpy chimney stacks of the Senate House, the squat towers of Gonville & Caius . . . It seems that everything is shifting, as if the curtain of daylight has been drawn back to reveal the dark and now, lit by moonlight, the truth of the world is revealed. Not as I’ve always seen it but as I once believed it to be. I imagine elegant stone spires elongating into the fine-spun branches of birch trees, chiselled turrets transforming into the trunks of ash trees, the sawn-off chimney stacks into witch hazel, the thick towers into adolescent oaks . . .

  Leo starts to slow along Trinity Street, then stops outside Saint John’s College. Everwhere fades as I admire the vast red brick pillars enclosing the wooden gates, culminating in turrets so venerable, so imposing, that they might be concealing knights in chain mail ready to tip pots of hot tar on our heads. A stone sculpture of an unknown saint or king stands above the college crest painted in gold. I take a step back.

  Leo meets my eye; for a moment, I forget who he is and what he’s done.

  “Am I about to be initiated into an antiquated college cult?” I say, needing to bring a little light to the dark. “I won’t do any weird rituals—I draw the line at chicken blood.”

  Leo gives me a half-hearted smile. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocks a small door cut into the grand wooden gates. He holds it open. I hesitate.

  “Come on. It’s nearly time.”

  I step through, thinking that perhaps I should have told someone where I was going, what I was doing. But who? And what would I have said? Leo hurries across the court, sticking to the stone paths. I glance up at the rows of darkened windows carved into the ancient walls edging the lawns. I wonder if anyone is up this late. I follow Leo into a stone corridor, our footsteps echoing like those of a child scampering after a single-minded parent. We cross another courtyard before Leo comes to a sharp stop outside a walled garden. On the gate is a sign: the master’s garden.

  “I don’t think we’re allowed in there,” I say. “Even at half past three in the morning.”

  “Lucky then that we’re not going there,” Leo says.

  I say nothing.

  “At three thirty-three a.m., the moon will slip from behind the clouds to illuminate the gate. Then we’ll open it and walk through, not into the Master’s Garden, but into your world—”

  “Look,” I interrupt. It’s all too much too soon. “I think perhaps—I don’t think I should be out so late, I’d better be getting back . . .”

  Leo reaches towards me as I’m inching off the stone path, my heels hitting the grass verge. “Wait, Goldie, don’t be—don’t you trust me?”

  I nod, then think again of Ma. “It’s just that . . .”

  “What? You think I’m bringing you here to—you really think I’d be able to . . .” He can’t finish the sentence, but I hear the final words as if he’d spoken them aloud.

  “No, but it’s . . . with Teddy I can’t afford to take chances.”

  Leo looks stricken. “Shit, Goldie. How could—how can you think that of me? I know what I’ve done, but after everything we’ve—”

  “Can you blame me?” Anger flares in my chest. “You killed my mother. You were intending to kill me. You’ve changed your mind now, but still . . .”

  As I speak tears fill Leo’s eyes and slip down his cheeks. And I’m struck by the fact that I’ve never seen him like this before. Hate recedes, and as love rises, ribbons of desire begin to unfurl within me, unbidden, as they did the first time we met.

  Leo takes a hesitant step towards me, as if I’m a skittish deer he’s trying to feed. “You know—you know I would never, never . . .”

  I nod. “I know.” And I do.

  Leo steps forward again. This time I let his hand touch mine and I slip my fingers into his.

  “I wish I hadn’t left this too late. I wish I’d brought you here the night of the first-quarter moon just after I met you, then at least you’d stand a fighting chance of . . .”

  I’m about to fill in his words, to point out that when we first met his aim had been to exterminate me. But I know that he’s thinking the same thing, that he’s hating himself, so I don’t.

  “Right.” I step forward so we’re standing side by side in front of the gate. “I’m here. Just tell me what to do.”

  “It won’t be a moment.”

  And sure enough, the moon slides out from behind the clouds and the iron gate is illuminated, each midnight curlicue shimmering with a silver hue. Leo reaches up with his free hand to push the gate open and, together, we step through.

  Arrival

  Leo’s right, it’s most definitely not the master’s private garden. It’s not Saint John’s. It’s not this world at all. It’s the place from my dreams. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dense fog that hangs in the air, a few minutes until I can make out the shapes of towering trees and fallen trunks, until I focus enough to hear the rush of a river nearby, of water running over rocks.

  “Why is everything so pale?” I whisper, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “It’s . . . it’s like stepping inside a black-and-white photograph.” I reach up to brush a fallen leaf from my hair and see blanched leaves falling above and all around me, like rain. “Or a very strange snow globe.”

  Still holding Leo’s hand, I walk on. We step from stone to stone, sometimes into sinking basins of moss, everything sprinkled with a dusting of dried white leaves. They gather in drifts, shoring up the edges of the fallen trunks and the long-fingered roots of the trees. They float along the streams, swirling in the currents of the water. I feel the earth hum under my feet, the stretch and pull of unseen growth deep beneath. When I step into pools of moonlight, it feels warm on my skin.

  I feel something I can’t quite place, can’t quite remember.

  And then it returns: the feeling of coming home.

  Bea

  Bea walks quickly along the streets of South Kensington. She has no idea where she’s going, nor does she care. She only wants to be as far from her mamá’s flat as possible. She hasn’t heard her father’s voice again since stepping out into the cold night air, but she doesn’t care about that either. She will go where she damn well pleases. And, right now, all she wants to do is keep walking.

  On Cromwell Road she slows. Bea’s always been drawn to the Natural History Museum and, as it comes into view, she remembers the school trips, seeing the Diplodocus skeleton for the first time, being struck by its massive power.

  Now she stops at the entrance, her hand resting on the thick brass lock of the gateway barring her from the museum steps. She gazes at the towers flanking the vast doors, the dozens and dozens of great stained-glass windows, the turrets reaching towards the stars.

  As a wash of moonlight falls over the gate, in the silver glow the memory of that place returns, suddenly and completely, as vivid and real as every pane of glass and brick that built her favourite museum. Bea glances u
p at the moon, then pushes open the gate and walks through, stepping from a street in South Kensington and into Everwhere.

  Liyana

  Liyana is woken by music, the strumming chords of a guitar. She wrinkles her nose and rubs her eyes before peering into the darkened room. Annoyed to be awake at—she glances at her phone—not yet three o’clock in the morning, Liyana shuts her eyes again and burrows her head under the pillows. But even when she presses the pillows down hard, Liyana can still hear the music.

  “What the hell?” She flings back the duvet and slides out of bed. Crossing the carpet, she yanks aside the curtains, unlocks the latch, and sticks her head out the window. Wincing at the rush of cold night air, Liyana peers out onto the street below. Standing in a yellow pool of artificial light, a man strums a guitar. Liyana squints at him.

  “Mazmo?”

  “Hey, Ana!” He waves up with great enthusiasm, as if his arrival under her window in the middle of the night were a perfectly respectable or, indeed, anticipated rendezvous. “Happy birthday!”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Liyana hisses. “Are you drunk?”

  Mazmo laughs. “I’m being romantic! I’m serenading you, like that bloke, what’s he called? Cyrano de something, or . . . Romeo.”

  “That’s not romantic.” Liyana raises an eyebrow. “It’s massively inappropriate, given that I’m certainly not Roxane, or Juliet.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say you’re so far removed from two of the most beautiful women of all time.”

  “Mazmo,” Liyana warns. “I told you we’re not—”

  “I know, I know, but can’t you let me play a little make-believe? It’s fun.” Mazmo sets down his guitar.

  Liyana yawns. “It’d be a lot more fun at a decent hour. At, I don’t know, any time before midnight or after dawn.”

  Mazmo grins. “Come on.” He beckons her down. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”